It was the night I became a man. It was Ocean Beach, California. It was a Halloween party in 1999 and I was dressed as a P.E. teacher. You should have seen my outfit: tiny blue shorts, a striped half-shirt, and a megaphone. I looked ridiculous and never thought in a million years this would be the night I’d finally get my swerve on.
Myself and a group of friends had just finished playing “Edward 40-Hands.” For those who haven’t experienced this liver-pounder, it’s a drinking game where you duct-tape two 40s to your hands and you can’t remove them from your grip until you’ve finished both. It’s pretty tough unzipping your pants with two hands full of Olde English, but somehow, it always gets done.
Needless to say, by the time 80 ounces of malt liquor had infiltrated my bloodstream, I was smashed. I stumbled around, I broke a lamp, I stepped on a sleeping cocker spaniel, and I almost got my arse kicked. I was really, really crunked. Along with the smell of booze, sweat, and Velveeta cheese sauce (which I spilled on my shirt), I must have been oozing pheromones because this hot (I think) Latina kept checking me out. Her eyes said, “Come on, drunkie, make me your bitch lover.” My brain responded with, “Dood, I want a Califffffffoooornyah burrrrrrrrito and some frrrrench toast.”
Somehow, I was able to form at least a few sentences because I ended up bedding this lovely lady in the master bedroom of the party pad. It was the greatest 17 seconds of my life. After I finished, I got up, shook her hand, asked what her name was, and went back to the living room. When I arrived, red-faced and wearing a plaid bathrobe, Filter’s “Hey Man, Nice Shot” was playing on the stereo! I smiled, high-fived my best friend, vomited all over myself, and woke up the next morning with a crazy hangover and the word “wanker” spelled backwards on my forehead.
Shift: 6:00–10:00 a.m., Saturdays